The Pretender Project
by Dracannia
Summary: Knockout's reached some new lows, stealing humans and experimenting on them. So far twenty subjects have died, two of them live; and these two no longer consider themselves human but as vicious mechanical beasts hiding in human skin.


I've gone totally against my word and posted a new story. But I wanted this up as a preview for what's to come. It will be updated once I'm finished with past fictions.

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Chapter I

A doctor is sworn to benefit the sick, to remain a member of society, to remember that medicine is both an art and science, to avoid over- and maltreatment, to respect the scientific gains of fellow physicians, and to, most importantly, not play God.

Unfortunately the opposite is true of Decepticon medics. Some are savage, some respect the art, some experiment, and some are just plain crazy. In other cases, they can fit into all categories, and they are hardly afraid of getting caught, for their methods, they claim, are "for the good of evolution" and "for the better of science and discovery." They like to sweeten and flower their excuses, and more than one time it works.

If anyone should fear a Decepticon, it should be their doctors. They are trained to know which part of you will bleed the most, which part can be severed that will kill you quickly, painlessly, easily, or, if your doctor happens to be sadistic, slowly and torturously. If luck has turned against you, spat at you, frowned upon you, you have met a mad practitioner of medicine who will turn you into a project. At first you cling to the hope, the fantasy, of escape. You dream that the Autobots happen to attack this base and storm inside to find you half mutilated on the floor of the medical bay and take you back to sanctuary to be treated by a doctor who was sent from the heavens to fix you. You sneer and spit poison at your Decepticon doctor, remarking that no god in the existence of the universe and beyond the stars would accept him. Your doctor laughs, and says, "Of course not! What kind of moronic god would take in a devil past his gates?"

Your dreams start to fade. They get darker, and they fill with broken memories of what your life once was, and eventually you begin to wonder if that really was your life before the doctor. You question the existence of gods. Religion has no place in a soul that has been physically and mentally tortured, and you have the scars, burns, and the unintelligible babble of your tongue to prove it. Was there a time when you were happy? Was there a moment when you believed salvation looked like a winged being made of light and song to come rescue you from the rusty instruments wielded by your malevolent captor? Was there such a place as Heaven?

By now you are too weak. You hiss in the morning, cursing the cosmic force that has allowed you to live only to endure further abuse of the doctor's needles and drugs. You have more than once contemplated suicide and more than once were close to succession. The aforementioned celestial, or rather satanic, power has again forcibly shoved you into continue living your miserable life as a doctor's experiment. Death's welcome is inviting. Life has other plans for you. You now realize something else is in control of your life. The lies you were told, that bullshit about "carving your own destiny", were spoken flamboyantly and ignorantly from whoever spat it. You are angry at everything, absolutely and undoubtedly everything. The doctor can see it in your eyes. He says, "If only you had that fire when I brought you in. Then maybe you would have had a chance to escape."

That barbaric scholar taunts you now, fanning the flames of rage inside of you. You lash back out in words, not having the physical strength any longer. You are a beast. A wild, feral thing. You curse him to the deepest and darkest center of Hell as he laughs at your petty profanity. You no longer care. Your civility has been thrown out the window, crushed by a boulder, swallowed by an abyss. You promise and you swear to make it out alive and that the doctor will not survive the shitstorm you are about to brew. You are going to first rip off the hands that hurt you. You are going to bash his head to the floor as many times as the scars you can count on your body. You are going to rid him of his sight, right after you rip his spark from that living husk. And when you are done, eat him.

If anyone should fear the Decepticons, let it not be the doctors. Let it be the ones who endured months under the doctor's nurture.


End file.
